Tom, come this way; here it is, here it is,--there." Tom looked up, and
in a gigantic cage was a light brown bird.

He was utterly confounded. "What, is it this we came twelve miles to
see?"

"Ay! and twice twelve wouldn't have been much to me."

"Well, but what is the lark you talked of?"

"This is it."

"This? This is a bird."

"Well, and isn't a lark a bird?"

"O, ay! I see! ha! ha! ha! ha!"

Robinson's merriment was interrupted by a harsh remonstrance from
several of the diggers, who were all from the other end of the camp.

"Hold your--cackle," cried one, "he is going to sing;" and the whole
party had their eyes turned with expectation towards the bird.

Like most singers, he kept them waiting a bit. But at last, just at
noon, when the mistress of the house had warranted him to sing, the
little feathered exile began, as it were, to tune his pipes. The savage
men gathered round the cage that moment, and amidst a dead stillness the
bird uttered some very uncertain chirps, but after awhile he seemed to
revive his memories, and call his ancient cadences back to him one by